Delusional and pathetic

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After that day nothing was the same, he started avoiding me, it hurt. Since I didn’t have someone else I had got used to. I was again totally alone, without help in a deep black hole. I wanted to die for being so weird. I didn’t want to go back to school. I wanted to live in my room, locked without anyone, just me and my loneliness. So I did it. It was horrible…

One day, one of those weeks I didn’t go to school. I was in my room, curled in the blankets, totally covered with my sheets.

I looked like a wreck—hair tangled, some random t-shirt clinging to me, and a pair of wrinkled shorts that hadn’t seen daylight in days. My eyes were the worst part—red, swollen, tired in that way crying makes permanent. I had been asleep, not out of rest, but because I didn’t plan on waking up at all. Pathetic, I know. Depressing? Absolutely. But that was the truth of it.

That day, a deep, smooth, and dangerous voice pulled me from sleep. It was his—the voice of that stranger. As always, he looked effortlessly handsome, sitting beside me on the bed, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. At first, he didn’t notice I was awake, but when he did, his calm expression snapped into something tense—worried, maybe.

He told me he’d been worried about me, that not seeing me at school for days made him fear something bad had happened. His concern felt genuine, almost overwhelming. Then, he apologized for avoiding me, for ignoring me—but admitted he found it unsettling that I’d been taking pictures of him. We were just friends, after all, and it was the strangest, most uncomfortable thing he’d ever experienced. He said he felt stalked.

Of course, I forgot him as fast as a flash—because I would do anything for that boy. When I finally found the courage to apologize, I did it like a trembling dog crawling at its owner’s feet, voice barely steady, heart hammering in my chest. His presence made me insane. I promised him I would never do it again—that I was just a weird, foolish idiot who didn’t know how to behave. I wanted to be near him always, but that little moment had twisted my thoughts into knots, filling me with worry that he might see me as strange—or worse, some disgusting, pathetic gay boy.

He blinked, clearly taken aback by how harshly I spoke about myself, then softened and said, “You don’t have to be perfect to be around me.”

My idol was forgiving an idiot like me. A sick and weird idiot like me.

When he finally forgave me, relief crashed over me so fiercely I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. I cried—not from sadness, but from the purest, overwhelming happiness.

The tears came fast—hot, messy, unstoppable. My chest trembled with each shallow breath as sobs broke out of me like waves crashing against a shore, as I let out probably the most weird and ugly smile he had ever seen. I clutched the blanket tighter, hiding my face, ashamed of how broken and idiotic I must’ve looked. But he didn’t pull away. He stayed. And that made it worse—because no one had ever stayed before.

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